


If Wishes Were Poppy

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble, Friendship, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:04:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two rogues sit in a bar. A Seeker listens. What if Varric's silence is not all that kept Hawke away?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Wishes Were Poppy

They are in the tavern, of course. Where else would they be? You can still see his lips forming the fond words, there in the long-abandoned library of Hawke's estate, describing bar fights and late nights in The Hanged Man. They would go nowhere else to...catch up.

You stand on the second story, hands braced on the railing's rough grain, and listen. You do not know what you expected. Hawke is not like the stories. She's rather short, actually. Shorter than you. The red of her armor has faded. Her hair has grown out, shaggy, past her chin. She wears red paint on her nose, it's true, but she has aged beneath it—no longer the youth she was in Kirkwall, but a woman crawling painfully toward middle age.

You can only make out a little of their conversation above the minstrel and idle chatter of the other patrons. She laughs, high and easy, and Varric reaches across the table to take her hand in both of his. She smiles at him, crooked on one side.

"I've languished without you, my trusty dwarf." You half-hear the words, half-see them. You hadn't noticed how tense Varric had seemed before this moment; now, he sags, as though he can rest at last.

You feel yet more regret for the words you spoke yesterday. It will never end, it seems.

"You ought to have sent word earlier," she continues. "I would have come."

"You always do." He is tired but fond, exasperated but affectionate. "That's the problem."

"I did not earn my reputation by looking the other way, it's true." Hawke takes a deep drink from her mug. "Still, I wouldn't have considered it a burden."

Varric shakes his head. "Thought you'd earned a vacation."

Hawke brays at that, head tipped back and eyes squinted shut. "People like us don't  _get_ a vacation, Varric." She finishes her ale and gets to her feet. "I'll see you in Crestwood." She touches his shoulder as she passes, brief but heavy, and then she is out the door and gone.

You should apologize. So should  _he_ , but you tell yourself that he won't, and regardless, it is only your actions that you can control. You are about to go down there and grit your teeth through it when a throat clears behind you.

You turn, and there she is: leaning back against the wall beside the window, hip cocked to one side, mouth pulled into a smirk.

"Seeker," she says, inclining her head, but not taking her eyes off you.

You try to conceal your embarrassment at being caught eavesdropping, but you are not as sly as Varric and Hawke, and you can see it in the humor on her face.

"Champion," you reply. You imagined this very differently. You did not think you would resent this woman as much as you do.

She blinks. "Just Hawke," she says. "I fear that bloody titles will not help us much now."

"Cassandra, then," you say.

"Cassandra," she repeats. "I am sorry I did not come sooner. I am not as ignorant as Varric believes, I'm afraid."

You were half-sure this was the case, even as you shouted the dwarf into silence yesterday. It was easier to blame him than to blame her, this ghost you've chased in a desperate bid for answers.

"He is one of my only friends, now," she says, so quietly that you nearly miss it. "Believe me when I say I have not enjoyed being away—on my own. But I am a Champion, not a leader. Your Inquisitor is rather better suited to the post, I promise. I couldn't keep a merry band of misfits focused for five minutes, let alone five months. And more misfits."

"I know." The words ache in your throat. "We only needed someone, and you seemed a logical choice."

Hawke snorts at this, her nose wrinkling. "What tale did Varric tell you? I left Kirkwall in pieces behind me."

"Not for lack of trying."

"Yes, well.  _Trying_ has never won any wars."

You hold out your hand. "Still. I am glad you are an ally now."

There are talons on her gauntlets; she knows just how to shake so they don't slice your bare fingers to shreds. "It is the role I prefer to serve in." She spares a last glance for the tavern below them—at Varric's head, bowed over his mug. "I wish he could leave Kirkwall," she says. "I wish we all could."

She is gone out the window before you can reply, so instead, you square your shoulders and make for the stairs. Maker knows Varric is annoying, and a liar, and  _impossible_ , but—if there is one trait you can admire in him, it is that he has protected his friend to the last, shouldered the blame rather than passing it to her, even if she  _deserves_ it. You have never thought of Varric as particularly loyal, but perhaps it is a good time to start.


End file.
